Caelan POV:
Morning doesn’t announce itself in the packhouse so much as seep in. I wake before the light reaches the windows, the territory already humming beneath my skin. And her.
I tell myself it’s habit. Awareness of a guest and responsibility. The lie doesn’t sit well.
I dress quietly and follow the pull down the hall, boots soundless against the stone. I stop outside Elara’s door longer than necessary, aware of the exact moment when waiting becomes intention. Long enough to recognise that this isn’t duty guiding me now. It’s choice.
I knock.
There’s a pause — just long enough to register movement — and when the door opens, the world narrows.
She stands there barefoot, hair loose and soft from sleep, wearing pyjama shorts and a thin top that clings just enough to be unfair. Her
